There's Always Time For Biscuits
by HecateA
Summary: Minerva McGonagall did not think that saying goodbye to this graduating class would be any different. As always, James Potter is happy to prove her wrong. Oneshot. House Competition, final round.


**Author's Note: **Wah, last story written for this competition! It's been a ride, and I'm glad I managed to squeeze in this underappreciated bromance before the end. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **The following characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and this story derives from her original works, storylines, and world. Please do not sue me, I can barely pay tuition.

**Warnings: **NA

**Betas: **Crissie and Jet

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**House:** Hufflepuff

**Role:** Head Girl

**Category:** 4: Prompts

**Prompt:** [Prompt] Last day at school.

**Word Count:** 784

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**Stacked with: **MC4A; Shower of Words; Terms of Service

**Individual Challenge(s): **Gryffindor MC (x2); Summer Vacation; Neurodivergent; In a Flash (Y); Yellow Ribbon; Yellow Ribbon Redux

**Representation(s): **Hogwarts graduation; ADHD James Potter

**Bonus challenge(s): **Bust a Cap; Delicious Lie; Tomorrow's Shade; Second Verse (Machismo); Chorus (Not a Lamp); Demo (White Dress; Bee Haven; Rock of Ages; Hot Apple; Sailor Take Warning; Gingersnap)

**Tertiary bonus challenge: **NA

**Word Count: **784

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**There's Always Time For Biscuits **

The knock on Minerva's door came at a most undesirable time, considering how it was about 6:00 a.m. and she had been up all night correcting NEWT essays. This year's graduating class was particularly large, and she knew for a fact that all of her colleagues were behind on grading as a result. Poor Horace had fallen asleep on his grading shortly after dinner, and Filius had gotten quite emotionally fragile by 1:00 a.m.—graduation day always played a number on him. Still, Minerva had another whole hour left to finish the last few Ravenclaw essays in her pile. It was completely doable, as long as she was left alone. Which, of course, was too much to ask for.

"Come in," she called unenthusiastically, pushing up her glasses and rubbing at her eyes.

In came James Potter, wearing a pair of Muggle jeans, an inside-out t-shirt and his Team Gryffindor Quidditch jacket. His hair was particularly messy and some sort of white powder had fallen into it. He held a tin in his hands, as carefully as if it was a small child.

"Potter?" she asked. "What on Earth are you doing, roaming around the castle this early? Curfew—"

"Funny thing about curfew, Professor, is that it tells you when to be in bed but not when you can get back out of bed," James said. "So technically, _technically, _I'm not doing anything wrong."

The boy was graduating in a matter of hours. Why bother arguing with him now?

"Well then, regardless of whether or not you should be punished for doing so, what _has _brought you out of bed? The sun is just now rising."

"Well, I asked the House Elves when I could use the kitchen without being under their feet. They're a really hard-working lot, so the time slot they gave me was unconventional, but still worthwhile in my humble opinion."

He plopped the tin on her desk and slid it over to her. An earnest, giddy smile tugged at his lips.

Minerva pulled it towards her and cracked the lid, which released a thousand smells into her office—ginger, cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon, chocolate, butter... When she opened the tin completely to properly take inventory of the array of biscuits before her, she was nearly overwhelmed. There were chocolate chip biscuits, lemon squares, gingerbread carefully cut and decorated to look like snitches, brownies topped with nuts, squares of fudge, sugar biscuits drizzled in red and gold icing, shortbread, thumbprint biscuits filled with strawberry jam, pinwheels, oat cakes…

"You made these yourself, Potter?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Was Mr. Black involved?"

"This isn't a prank, Professor. Promise."

Minerva arched an eyebrow. James Potter was no liar, but he was careful with his phrasing.

"I've eaten a _lot _of biscuits in this office," James began. "Some of them you gave me, because I came to ask a particularly clever question or was strategizing Quidditch. One time you saw straight through me and gave me one because you knew I was acting all messed up because of my Dad being ill. I'm not going to lie though, I also stuffed my face every time you sent me to your office and told me to wait for you here because I was in trouble. In retrospect, I've stolen many, many biscuits from you, Professor. And I realised I should return the favour before I leave this place, because I really wouldn't be the same if I hadn't run into you quite so much."

Her eyes flitted from the carefully put-together tin of biscuits to the rebellious, ragamuffin baker who stood before her. Seven years ago, she had taken one look at him, turned to Pomona, and told her colleague that James Potter was going to make her life a living hell from which she could not wake. She'd been right, of course. She could confidently say so, now that it was the boy's last day at Hogwarts and she had witnessed the entirety of his chaotic academic career. But she had also come to appreciate the surprises the boy had in him, or the way that all that spare energy and creativity could be oh so thoughtful. Now, she wasn't quite so sure what to say.

She pushed away her grading. To hell if it wasn't done by graduation ceremony; grades would not be sent out until July, anyways. What was Albus going to do?

With a flick of her wand, another cup landed on her desk in front of where the young man stood. The coffee pot that had been brewing all night and keeping her awake came along to take care of refills.

"Sit with me, Potter," she said. "Have a biscuit."


End file.
